There is a meadow in Sweden <br /> <br />where I lie smitten, <br /> <br />eyes stained with clouds' <br /> <br />white ins and outs. <br /> <br /> <br />And about that meadow <br /> <br />roams my widow <br /> <br />plaiting a clover <br /> <br />wreath for her lover. <br /> <br /> <br />I took her in marriage <br /> <br />in a granite parish. <br /> <br />The snow lent her whiteness, <br /> <br />a pine was a witness. <br /> <br /> <br />She'd swim in the oval <br /> <br />lake whose opal <br /> <br />mirror, framed by bracken, <br /> <br />felt happy, broken. <br /> <br /> <br />And at night the stubborn <br /> <br />sun of her auburn <br /> <br />hair shone from my pillow <br /> <br />at post and pillar. <br /> <br /> <br />Now in the distance <br /> <br />I hear her descant. <br /> <br />She sings "Blue Swallow," <br /> <br />but I can't follow. <br /> <br /> <br />The evening shadow <br /> <br />robs the meadow <br /> <br />of width and color. <br /> <br />It's getting colder. <br /> <br /> <br />As I lie dying <br /> <br />here, I'm eyeing <br /> <br />stars. Here's Venus; <br /> <br />no one between us.<br /><br />Joseph Brodsky<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/tornfallet/
